


verse. chorus. verse.

by ewelinakl



Series: between the lines [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Canon verse, Geralt has feelings, M/M, and he's very bad at expressing them, set between the blood of elves and the time of contempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23141785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewelinakl/pseuds/ewelinakl
Summary: "We're not going together.”Jaskier's face crumpled in a wounded expression, his hand leaving Geralt's chest.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: between the lines [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615669
Comments: 2
Kudos: 127





	verse. chorus. verse.

**Author's Note:**

> the title comes from Richard Siken's "Dirty Valentine"

Geralt woke up angry.

The anger was stale — he could no longer remember the reasons for it. Only that it had something to do with Filippa.

He tried to sit up, but Jaskier's hand touching his chest stopped him.

"They said you need to rest," Jaskier pleaded, brows knitted together.

He sat next to the bed, on a wooden stool that seemed awfully uncomfortable. Geralt looked around the room, narrowing his eyes. The potions still hadn't worn out and the light was too bright for him. He didn't know this place. It definitely wasn't Shani's bedroom that he visited earlier today. Or maybe it was yesterday already?

He was wasting time.

He tried to sit up once more, but Jaskier's hand pressed flat against Geralt’s breastbone, while his mouth pressed into a thin line, the concerned expression he rarely wore.

So Geralt was wounded more seriously than he'd thought. It didn't matter, though, he had to get going, he had to—

"We can go in the morning," Jaskier said, his thumb brushing across Geralt's chest. "I overheard a thing or two this week. The magicians will be gathering at that island of theirs. Thanedd. It's near Gors Velen. I think that's where you need to go, right?" Geralt said nothing. Jaskier smiled lopsidedly. "Thought so. I took your money, by the way. For the ferry contract. I considered spending it all in the best whorehouses of Oxenfurt, as redress for the mental damage you caused me today, but eventually decided it inappropriate, as you lay here, wounded and alone. So I ended up just buying myself a bottle of finest Est Est, as well as—" Jaskier trailed off, seeing Geralt's face. "The horses are ready, the bags packed, there are food and water. We can leave first thing in the morning," he said, seriously this time.

"We're not going together.”

Jaskier's face crumpled in a wounded expression, his hand leaving Geralt's chest.

Geralt remembered what Jaskier told him about Rience. He remembered how Jaskier tried to brush it off and act as if it was no big deal. But he kept touching his wrists and fingers as he said that, every little joint, every bone, and Geralt knew that Rience was close to ruining those hands, those fingers. And that if it wasn't for Yen —

That's why he wanted to tear Rience apart during their fight. The threats were just the tip of the iceberg, just a convenient excuse, but underneath there was a layer of galvanised fury at the piece of shit who dared to lay a hand on Jaskier. And at himself for letting this happen, for letting people notice just how important Jaskier was to him, how close they were with each other, for handing Rience and whoever pulled his strings a reason to hurt the bard.

They would follow him now, though. As long as they could track him easily, they would leave Jaskier alone.

"I need you to go to Dorian," Geralt said, looking up at the bard. "I need you to sort something out for me. Can you do it?"

He wasn't lying. He did need someone to talk to Codringher for him and Jaskier would do great in this role. The fact that it would keep him safe away from Geralt for a while was just a bonus.

Jaskier scoffed, shaking his head. He saw right through him, once again. But still — "Alright," he said, shrugging. "I'll go."

Geralt tried to smile. He just wanted to keep Jaskier safe. Just that.

"Come here," he said, lifting the covers. "It's a long way, you need to rest."

Jaskier laughed, standing up and kicking his shoes off. "I gotta say, this stool is the single most uncomfortable piece of furniture ever created, I can't feel my buttocks."

Geralt could, though, so he did. Jaskier sighed softly when the witcher pulled him close, nosing along his neck and jaw.

The potions still hadn't worn out fully and he could smell everything on Jaskier's skin — rosehip, rain, a hint of Shani's perfume, and underneath, Geralt's own scent. He liked that, the idea of leaving a mark on his bard that no one could notice, a mark so secret only the two of them knew about it.

Jaskier purred when Geralt rubbed his stubble against his neck. He drew back to soothe the beard burn with kisses, soft and delicate.

The potions still hadn't worn out, so Geralt couldn't fuck Jaskier the way he wanted. But he could still give him some pleasure, a little reward for being brave and patient, and not arguing when Geralt asked to split for a while.

The potions still hadn't worn out and it must've shown in his eyes, the size of his pupils. When people looked at him like this, they often feared him more than the monsters he slaughtered for them. But not Jaskier. Jaskier could see him drugged to the point where he was more of a snarling wolf than a witcher and still look at him as if nothing was wrong with him, as if he was perfectly human.

Jaskier's hand cupped his cheek, pulling him closer into a long, wet kiss. And Geralt knew he shouldn't make comparisons, that it led nowhere, but only Jaskier could kiss him like this a mere day after he caught Geralt in bed with his friend.

Sometimes Geralt found himself hoping Jaskier would get jealous, after all. And maybe it was just that he was skewed by Yen, that in his mind deep emotions meant possessiveness, that he couldn't help but wonder if Jaskier was so unbothered because he simply didn't care that much. But there was no point in thinking about it now.

He moved down to suck a few bruises into Jaskier's neck and then across his collar bones. He freed Jaskier from his shirt and then trailed down his chest and stomach that fluttered under his lips. He unlaced Jaskier's ridiculous trousers made of silk so fine that it must've cost a fortune. But not even the most expensive silks could match the softness of Jaskier's skin when Geralt took him in his mouth.

He recalled every little trick he'd leaned from Jaskier and from Yen, and though his technique wasn't great and his hands rough and calloused, Jaskier still sighed and moaned, lacing his fingers into Geralt's hair, guiding him. Geralt listened to all the clues, feeling Jaskier's muscle trembling, his grip tightening on Geralt's hair.

He didn't need to look up to know Jaskier was biting his lips to stay quiet, but he looked up nonetheless, just because it was a beautiful view — Jaskier's teeth digging into his bottom lip, red and swollen, his blue eyes hazy with pleasure, partially covered by the tousled blonde hair.

Then there came a moment when Jaskier threw his head back and whispered his name, breathlessly. He didn't need to because Geralt knew him and his body, he knew Jaskier was about to come without a verbal warning. But he was glad Jaskier gave it nonetheless because he loved how different Jaskier's voice was in bed, with Geralt. He loved that husky whisper and that shaky little moan that Jaskier produced when he came.

And the way Jaskier always pulled him into a deep, needy kiss right after, the way he laced his clever fingers into Geralt’s hair, pulling.

The bard fell asleep soon after, his face pressed into Geralt’s neck, but Geralt lay awake for a while still, thinking about Rience, Filippa protecting the sorcerer behind him, about Ciri and Yen. He tried to estimate just how much Codringher’s help would cost him and how to make this much money in such a short time.

The potions wore off, at last, so did the spells and whatever conventional painkillers Shani had fed him, and if it wasn’t for all the experience in controlling his reactions, Geralt would be howling in pain. When he fell asleep eventually, burning in fever, it was only to dream of fire and slaughter, and Ciri’s voice among it all.

He woke up feeling a draft on his bare skin. Jaskier must’ve left the window cracked and now the damp morning air leaked into the room, chilling Geralt to the bone. He was shirtless after all of the medical ministrations and must've kicked off the duvet at some point of the night, so now he lay there in nothing but his underpants and without a chance to reclaim his cover because Jaskier had already cocooned himself in the entirety of it.

Geralt sighed, crawling out of bed to close the damn window. It was still grey outside, the sun hadn’t come up yet. He could stay here for just a little while longer. An hour, maybe two. Then he’d get going. Part with Jaskier.

He walked back to bed, embracing the roll of eiderdown containing the bard. For warmth.

The cocoon turned around in Geralt’s arms, sticking its nose under his chin and mumbling something sleepy. Geralt smiled, though something twisted uncomfortably in his chest.

"We'll meet in Gors Velen, right?" asked the roll of eiderdown. "Soon? Ish?"

Geralt hugged it tighter. "Yeah," he said. "Go straight there from Dorian. I'll join you soon."

The cocoon shuddered, twisted and then from its upper end emerged Jaskier's face. His hair was a wild mess getting in his eyes, so Geralt swept it away before he leaned in for a kiss, long and sweet, sweeter than usual.

"Dorian?" Jaskier said, raising his brows. "You have a business for Codringher and Fenn? You want them to find what they can on Ciri?"

Geralt only nodded. There was nothing to add, Jaskier as always pieced the story together from a handful of vague clues.

"It's gonna cost a pretty penny," Jaskier noted, wincing "Most of your money for the ferry contract's still here. I joked about the Est Est, I only spent what was necessary to get us a room, and a supper for me. So you have something, but definitely not enough."

"I'll take care of the money," Geralt said. "You just need to get there and tell him to start working, I'll come with payment as soon as I can."

"And then Gors Velen?"

"And then Gors Velen," Geralt agreed, holding back a grimace.

He was going to meet Yen there, eventually, and the moment he saw her, he'd forget about Jaskier for however long, the way he always did. Jaskier didn't seem to mind, didn't seem to be jealous or hurt, but Geralt still felt guilty every time it happened.

He always tried to make up for it, somehow, limiting his brooding and complaining about Jaskier's obnoxious behaviour to the minimum, showering him with affection. It was foolish, but what else could Geralt do? Yen had him in her hand, he was bound to run to her like a dog, the moment she whistled at him. He _wanted_ to run to her. He wanted to be with her. He loved her.

The problem was — the same was true for Jaskier, and by now it was so obvious that even people like Rience knew. So maybe it would be for the best if he got back with Yen for a while?

He could try to justify himself all he wanted, find dozens of perfectly reasonable excuses for leaving Jaskier and embarking on a wild trip that was being with Yennefer, but it wouldn't wash away the guilt — it would still be there, no matter how understanding Jaskier was.

It was the guilt that made him lean in for a lingering, sweet kiss and pin Jaskier to the mattress in a hopeless attempt to show him he cared, still, despite everything. It could probably be expressed in words, but not by Geralt — he was good at convoluted philosophical nonsense and useless grandiloquence, but not at talking of his feelings or emotions. So instead he did things like letting Jaskier wear his most expensive clothes or ride Roach with him, like paying for a room rather than spending the night in the woods. Or fucking the bard ever so gently, ticking every box on the list of little things that got Jaskier off.

The vial of oil was at its usual place, under Jaskier's pillow, because Jaskier somehow always knew what was about to happen, that clever little bastard.

Geralt didn’t rush this time. An hour or two wouldn't make much of a difference in the grand scheme of things, but it was enough to turn a good-bye quickie into —

Love-making? It sounded too grand for them, for a witcher and a bard fucking in a dusty cold room of an Oxenfurt inn. This was more than just casual sex, though, maybe it has never been casual in the first place, or maybe it's lost its casualness somewhere along the way, but the way their bodies moved together, Geralt's hips rolling into Jaskier's, his lips on the bard's mouth, their fingers intertwined, the scent of rosehip and chamomile, the husky, deep sound of Geralt's name at the back of Jaskier's throat — it was special, it was a bond that defied logic and common sense, it was a bond that Geralt kept strengthening and mending, never letting it falter.

Why did he bother with semantics when the sun was rising, though? Fucking or love-making, what did it matter, when the sun flooded the room with a soft pink hue that highlighted Jaskier's flushed cheeks and chest, that brought some otherworldly glow to his blonde hair and bright blue eyes, causing Geralt to pause for a second and just take in this view, the beauty of Jaskier basked in the morning light, knees up to his ears, legs spread wide to accommodate Geralt. And that cheeky smile, when he realised why the witcher had stopped.

Jaskier raised a hand, touching Geralt's cheek, purring his name so low it was more a vibration than a sound, and Geralt didn't need any more incentive. He dove forward, his cock burying deep into the heat of Jaskier's body, arms hooked under Jaskier's knees, tongue slipping into the bard's mouth.

Jaskier clung to his shoulders, nails digging deep into Geralt's skin because Geralt found the right angle to drive his bard mad with pleasure and did exactly that, sucking on Jaskier's bottom lip and reaching between their bodies to take hold of his twitching cock, causing a muffled shout and a violent jerk of the bard's hips.

Geralt could feel Jaskier's orgasm approaching, his body tensing, balls tightening, mouth parting while his eyes shut, but Geralt was close, too, and—

"Look at me, Jaskier," he rasped, cupping the bard's cheek with the free hand, swiping the thumb over his lips, kissed raw and shiny with spit.

Jaskier opened his eyes as well as mouth, letting Geralt's thumb slide in, flush against his tongue. His gaze was hazy and so full of emotion that this alone brought Geralt to completion. He groaned, head slumping forward as he emptied inside Jaskier.

He gave himself a moment to recollect before drawing back. Or rather — attempting to draw back because the second he moved, Jaskier's teeth closed on his thumb, a weak moan of protest escaping the bard's mouth, his heels digging into Geralt's ass, trying to reel him back.

Geralt slid his thumb out of Jaskier's mouth, looking him in the eye. "Is this what you want?" he asked, driving his hips into Jaskier's, pulling on his cock, his grip tight at the base, and then light and teasing at the head.

Jaskier whimpered, nodding, his muscles tense and spasming around Geralt, fingers clutching at the witcher's biceps. "Hm?" Geralt asked, pressing his thumb against Jaskier's chin and then licking into his mouth. He pulled on the bard's bottom lip before tilting his head back and repeating, "Is this what you want?"

Jaskier moaned when Geralt's grip on his cock tightened a little. "Yes," he mumbled, his toes curling, his eyes rolling back. "Yes— just— nhh—"

"Just?" Geralt repeated, sinking his teeth into Jaskier's neck, putting just the right amount of pressure to make him groan. Jaskier's hips jerked in a half-hearted attempt to fuck into Geralt's hand.

"Just—" Jaskier took a shaky breath and then swallowed hard. "Faster, witcher," he rasped.

Geralt swiped his tongue across the bite mark he just left, reaching once more for the vial with oil, pouring some more of it over his hand and Jaskier's dick. He picked up the pace, at last, earning an appreciative groan. "Like this?" Geralt asked, swiping his thumb over Jaskier's head, spreading the bard's legs a little wider apart.

Jaskier's breath caught, his eyes met Geralt's, hands moved from the witcher's biceps to his hair, pulling him into a wet, ravenous kiss. "Yes," Jaskier gasped against his tongue. "Yes, Geralt, yes, yes, yes, Geralt—"

He came all over Geralt's hand, biting so hard into his lip it was a miracle he didn't draw blood. Geralt wiped his fingers on the bedsheets, finally pulling out of Jaskier's ass, kissing him once more on the open mouth.

The sunlight was no longer pink, it was bright and crisp, painting Jaskier's hair gold like a field of ripe wheat. It was getting late.

Jaskier's arms wrapped loosely around his neck, holding him back. "Just a moment longer, witcher," Jaskier murmured sleepily.

Geralt obliged because he felt guilty, because he felt like he owed Jaskier at least this much if he was to dump him for Yennefer soon enough.

He collapsed onto the bed right next to the bard, who rolled his head to the side, his forehead resting against Geralt's, damp with sweat that trickled down his nose. His eyes were blue as the sky on a sunny summer day, like cornflowers among the golden wheat.

"Go," Jaskier said after a while, his nose nuzzling against Geralt's. "I'll see you in Gors Velen."

And this was exactly what Geralt adored about Jaskier — just how simple everything was with him, how there were clear rules to everything and how every need was explicitly expressed, the fact that he didn't need to guess or try to divine the deeper meaning of an offhand comment.

He slid out of bed, grabbing a washcloth to clean himself before getting dressed.

Jaskier watched him, shielding his eyes from the sun with a forearm. "I'll send you a message once I decide where to stay," he said as Geralt struggled with his belt.

"Don't worry, I'll find you," Geralt said, looking up with a smirk. "I'll just listen for a woman shouting insults and I'm sure you'll be there, getting yelled at."

Jaskier snorted. "Very funny, Geralt."

"Seriously, though," Geralt said, putting on his jacket and shrugging to make it fall more comfortably over his shoulders, "stay out of trouble."

Jaskier gave him a look of pure innocence. "You hurt me with your implications. Have I ever gotten in trouble? Me?"

Geralt frowned, adjusting his swords over his back. "I mean it."

Jaskier rolled his eyes. "I'm not your lion cub," he said. "Rest assured, I'll be a good boy, nice and quiet, drawing no attention. Except for lustful gazes, of course, I cannot help it, though, my good looks will be the death of me one day," he added, stretching languidly and brushing his hair back from his face.

"Personally, I think it will be either your too-loose tongue or your penchant for sticking your cock in all the wrong places," Geralt said, checking the knife in his right boot. "Try to leave by the end of the day, if you can."

Jaskier waved a hand at him. "I will, as soon as I get a little beauty sleep, a bath, and breakfast. Codringher can wait that long."

Geralt sighed, rolling his eyes, as he grabbed his bag from a chair and threw it over his shoulder.

"See you around, poet."

Jaskier winked at him, crossing his arms under his head. "I'm sure you will, witcher."

**Author's Note:**

> huge, huge thanks to everyone who's left kudos and -- especially! -- comments on my previous works. your feedback means a lot to me 💕


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